Most mothers never forget about their children who were taken away in Northern Lights. I wrote about one that does, the mother of the little boy Lyra found in a shed hugging a fish in place of the daemon he was cut away from. That scene really struck a chord in my heart.
Disclaimer: I don't own His Dark Materials. If I did I probably would have made a real pig's ear of it…
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Gulp, gulp.
The liquid is swallowed down in thirsty gasps, desperately, by an animal that needs it to sustain her existence. There is nothing but the drink. Inside the bottle resides paradise. Maybe if she's drinks enough, she'll be able to reach out and grasp it with weak, white hands and never let it go.
Gulg, glug.
The heavenly essence slips down the throat of the one who craves it, tantalizing the tongue and forcing her head to bask in golden confusion. She's one step away from the blissful certainty that everything is good and well, that there is no such thing as pain. Half a step away from the silver gates that lock unshed tears away and bends reality into something she can handle.
The mind is ready, screaming for release but the body decides to put an end to the torrent of abuse it cannot face. The brittle, chalk-white fingers quiver uncertainly around the neck of the heaven-container. Then they cunningly loosen, ignoring the blurred commands from the brain.
Smash!
Thousands of glass splinters line the floor in a disorderly fashion, each one reflecting the horrified eyes of the being above. The eyes waver, the body sways then caves in as the beast howls over the losing the sensation of being lost.
Stupid body! Weak, pathetic, cruel body! How can it be so selfish?
The hound with red-rimmed eyes and saggy bones crawls over to her side, head in selfish lap. He sighs and tries to give voice to thoughts that he must express to save the other part of his soul from the cunning twinkle of alcohol. But he can't. He no longer processes the energy to persuade her to live in the real world of tears, fears and sunshine and hope. Indeed his mind is already cloudy from the daily dose of toxins she has taken. He feels every bitter swallow she takes in even if he has never touched the deadly pleasure-giver himself.
The woman stares at the sharp fragments, lamenting over the lost treasure, wanting its un-solid texture. It was life; nothing else gave her that same amount of joy. Except…
She frowns as memories buried underneath the drink flutter back into view. She can remember a pair of wide, clumsy eyes.
The daemon recalls a sparrow and a mouse, both the same creature, both a she. A daemon like himself only far younger. He can't quite put his paw on her name though…it began with an 'R'.
The woman bites her lip as the forgotten bronze tones of childish laughter chimes in her ears once more. The feel of a slippery kiss on her pasty cheek packed with affection. The memories so vivid she believes them and a spindly finger reaches up to the cheek as though she can still touch the fresh, wet imprint of a small mouth on her cheekbones. A mournful moan emerges as she realises she can't feel that innocent kiss any longer.
The spiders attached to her arms travel to her waist and wrap around it tightly as though they can compensate for the younger, chubby ones that used to envelop her there. When that happened she was filled with such warmth and radiance that she understood what love was. Then she would fold her arms around the shorter form and hold him there, breathing in chestnut leaves, stolen pies and unconditional love.
It's her fault he went away. She knows that. He was so perfect and gentle there's no way it could have been his fault. She doesn't know what she did wrong but whatever it was it must have been terrible in order to drive an angel like him away.
The ache in her heart begins to bubble. Usually it's at times like these she reaches for another bottle to chase away the grief. She would drink and drink until the memories had been drowned and then be baffled by the pure water flowing down her face. She would then catch those precious droplets wondering why she was crying. Eventually she would turn back to the bottle for answers she would never receive. But not this time.
"Tony…" she whimpers.
This time there's no liquid to coat her sorrow with falsehoods.
She gets up. Her daemon follows her, tail wagging, hope gleaming in his eyes. The broken glass remains on the ground.
She's going to find her little boy and bring him back. And she can't do that she'll look for the one thing the drink could never offer: the truth.
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You will not be forgotten again Tony Makarios….